


Save Everyone, Save Yourself

by zeldadestry



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-06
Updated: 2008-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:59:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't blame you. Please don't blame yourself. You're a good man. No, forget I said that, I'm sick of men. You're a good person."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Everyone, Save Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> prompt 74, 'summer', for 100_women fanfic challenge

She once prosecuted a stalker who had maintained an extensive surveillance network to spy on his former wife. Video, audio, the bastard had it all, at her home, at her office, even in her car.

Rachel knows he must do the same to her, wonders how long he's been doing it. It wouldn't surprise her to know that his observation without her consent predates the recent acute dangers. No doubt he rationalizes it all, believes he has the right to do it, all part of his duty to protect her.

Protect and serve. It's the motto, right?

Whatever he might think about why she refuses to see him, it's not because she blames him. No, she doesn't blame him for Harvey's death. She doesn't blame anyone besides the Joker, obviously. But she's angry with him, all the same. Sometimes she even thinks she hates him. Him. She doesn't even have a name for him anymore, that's the worst part. There is no "Bruce Wayne", there is no "Batman", they are both masks. And who is the man when all the masks are stripped away? Once, she thought she knew. Once, it was one of the only sure and true parts of her life. Now, now she has to admit she has no fucking clue. She always thought of him as Bruce and for a brief span of time, between Harvey turning himself in and Harvey's murder, she thought of him as the Batman. Now she only thinks of him as "B". She has no idea what it stands for, what his real name is.

Gordon's supposed to be bringing over some papers she needs, but it's after midnight and she's about to give up on him. She's getting ready for bed, is spitting out her toothpaste in the sink, when the buzzer goes off, making her jump. When she opens the door she's glad to see him. Determination and exhaustion seem to perpetually battle within him, as they do within her, these days. They both spend their days in their work, their nights alone. "Evening, Rachel," he says. "I couldn't get here any earlier, so I was glad to see your lights are still on. You're up late."

"Hello, James," she replies. "So are you."

He shrugs. "Part of the job. When shit's not done, I can't say it wasn't my department. It's all my responsibility and I accept that."

He passes her the stack of manila envelopes. He's hesitant around her, even deferent. He must also think that she blames him for not getting to Harvey in time. "You look tired. You work too hard."

"Don't you?"

"Of course. You deserve a drink. We both do. Why don't you come in?" He looks past her, into the apartment, as though the answers lie back there. "Come on," she says, takes him by the arm and steers him inside. The fabric of his shirt is slightly damp. It's been a sweltering summer. She's taken to wearing as little as possible when she's at home, just a black cotton dress she throws on, because she tries not to overdo it with the air conditioner. Everyone knows you don't want to lose power in Gotham. They're all safer with the lights on. If using less electricity means being perpetually sweaty, so be it.

She pours him scotch and Bailey's for herself. She has a good view, and he's standing by the windows when she walks back into the living room. "There's a balcony," she says, unlatching the door and sliding it open. "Come on out."

"You're a gardener," he notes, trailing his hand along the leaves of the geraniums. "Lovely."

"I spent so much time at Wayne Manor when I was growing up. I got used to having flowers around me."

"I've heard the grounds are beautiful there."

"They were. No one tends to them now."

He bends down to smell the evening primrose. "Sweet."

"They only bloom at night."

"My wife lives near a park." Everyone knows he's living in a hotel room for now. Her heart aches for him, for his refusal to feel sorry for himself, or bitter. "Sometimes when I take the kids to play, I see how happy they are outside and I'm sorry that they're growing up in the city."

"They grow up without seeing the stars." He's finished his drink. She takes the glass from him. "I'll be right back."

When she returns she brings the scotch with her, fills both their glasses. She can feel his eyes on her as she pours, but when she raises her gaze he's looking back out at the skyline. She's never thought she was the prettiest girl in the world, but she's always felt sexy, known how to use her body, her voice, to make whoever she wants want her in return. They stand side by side, looking out into the night. When she finishes her drink she turns her back to the city, brings her full attention on him. A tuft of his hair is out of place and she reaches up her hand and smoothes it down, once, twice, and then she lets her hand curve around the back of his neck. She watches as he empties his glass, watches his throat as he swallows. She takes his glass and deposits it on the little table where she's already abandoned her own. A drop of moisture remains at his lips, and he wipes it away with his thumb. She catches his hand in hers, keeps her eyes locked on him as she brings his thumb to her mouth, licks it, drags her teeth over calloused flesh, like she wants to bite him. "I should go," he says.

She pulls her mouth off his thumb, but holds onto his hand, presses it against her heart. "Stay." She's lonely and scared and she realizes it, that's what's so difficult. And she trusts him, she likes him, and if she's not going to have him, then what? She's got to have him, because if she doesn't have him, will she turn back to Bruce?

"If anyone sees me leaving your place this late at night, there'll be talk."

"I don't care. Do you?"

He rubs at his forehead. "I'm still married."

"To a woman who kicked you out of your own home. And why? Because you tried to protect her, because you tried to keep her and your children safe. You don't owe her anything."

"Don't be so hard," he counters. "You can imagine what it was like for her when she thought I was dead. You can imagine. Of course she hates me, how couldn't she? I lied to her and broke her heart."

"You saved her."

"And I'd do it all again. It was worth it to protect her, even if she can't stand me now. I just wish I could have saved…everyone."

That makes her smile, even makes her laugh, not at him, but at the absurdity of the wish, the impossible insanity of the messiah complex. "Who could save everyone?" she points out. "Trying to play god?"

He fixes her with his stare. "I wish I could have saved Harvey."

The self-recrimination she hears in his voice hurts her. She won't have him suffer on her account. She draws him back inside, sits him down on the couch beside her, leans into him and rests her lips against the curve of his ear. "It's not your fault," she whispers, and she brings her hand to press against his cheek, feels his skin burn under her touch. "I don't blame you. Please don't blame yourself. You're a good man. No, forget I said that, I'm sick of men. You're a good person."

"What makes you think that?"

"You do what you have to do, but without losing yourself. Do you know why I admire you? You don't hate. Even those people who turned on you, you don't want to hurt them, get back at them, do you? Not even Detective Ramirez."

"Sometimes people do the wrong thing when they're trying to protect their families. I can't hate her for loving her mother. I could hate myself for believing in my people, but what's the alternative?"

"You're right. We all have to believe in someone. Right now, I believe in you."

"Don't, Rachel, please, don't. I'm no saint."

"You're the closest Gotham's got."

"You might as well call this city damned."

"Then let's be damned together," she hisses, and licks his cheek. "Don't leave me alone," she begs. He turns, grabs her and kisses her with such hunger. She wonders when was the last time he kissed his wife like this, because this kind of desire can't last. God, she wishes it could. She kisses him back like it's a contest, like she has to prove she wants this most. She's never kissed anyone with a mustache before, she likes how it tickles and scratches.

When she straddles his hips he brings his hands to her ass and asks, ridiculous habitual courtesy, "You're sure this is what you want?"

"Yes," she insists and strips off her dress. "Stop thinking, Jim. Don't think." She's naked now, and he's fully dressed and she loves it, grinds up and down and then turns around so that her ass can rub against his cock. One of his arms wraps around her waist, and his other hand slides up her thigh, and she says, "Yes, touch me," and she'd never admit it, but she's always turned on by the sound of her own voice, she talks as much for herself as she does for him. "Feels so good, so much better than when I do it myself." His other hand is at her breast, squeezing her softly and she wants more. "Pinch my nipples," she orders, and he does and she whines in return, feels him thrust up against her ass. "You want me," she gloats, but she wants to hear him say it, wants B to hear it. "Do you want me?"

"Yes."

"You want to fuck me?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I want to fuck you."

"I want you to fuck me," she echoes. She rolls off of him, kneels in front of him and unbuckles his leather belt, presses her hand against his cock and just holds it there for a moment. She wants to look up at him, but she's almost afraid. She doesn't know what she's doing, she doesn't know what she wants. Fuck. That's what she said to him. But what does that word mean? Is that what she wants out of this, something fast and easy and over soon as they both come? Is that what she wants? Is that what would hurt B? It occurs to her that if he is watching, this will look like exactly what it is: desperate. "Wait," she says, and dares to look up at him. He watches her almost without expression, no expression but his habitual one, wary benevolence, like he pities the world he protects and all its inhabitants, even the ones he must hunt down and destroy. She takes his hand, nervous now. "Let's go into the bedroom."

It is so dark in her room, the shades are closed, so she leaves the door open to bring some light in. He sits down at the side of the bed, begins to take off his shoes, but she tells him, "Stop. Let me." He's already taken off his glasses, left them on the bedside table. She's irrationally disappointed at being denied any opportunity to strip him down. Let me take away all of your costumes, she thinks, everything that hides, obscures, until all that's left is skin.

"Where are your condoms?" he asks.

"We don't need them," she says. It will be good to feel him inside her. It's good to know how much B will hate this, hate her for being so incautious, hate her for having sex with someone who's not him, hate her for having sex with someone he probably also wants to fuck. She's always bossy when she wants something, so when he starts to loosen the knot on his tie, she grabs his hands. "No. Just let me, let me, I'll take care of everything." She gets on her knees and she takes his hands and bring them to her face, she closes her eyes and her lips part and she feels him bend towards her, his hands tangled in her hair now, his lips at her throat, her cheek, her eyelid, and then the tip of his tongue tracing the curves of her lips. Time seems to stop when he touches her like that, everything slows, his movements, the throb of her pussy, the beat of her heart. She sighs against his mouth, so hungry, so ready, her hands clutching at his thighs. She needs more of him. She reluctantly draws away from his mouth. "I'm going to take your clothes off now," she says, pulling off his shoes, his socks. "Stand up." She undoes the button at the top of his pants, carefully draws the zipper down. "Step out of them. Sit down again." She kisses the inside of each of his thighs, spreads them wider and runs her hands up them until she reaches the hot creases of his groin. She lifts herself just enough to sit down on his right thigh, straddling it, facing him, as she unknots his tie. She rocks slightly back and forth against him, such a good feeling, his coarse hair against her swollen, shaved lips. She likes knowing that he's going to smell like her, like her come. She unbuttons his shirt quick as she can, because he's wearing an undershirt beneath and she's got to get it off of him, has to have her hands, her mouth, on his chest, his belly. She gets his dress shirt off, finally, orders him to stick up his arms and takes off his undershirt. She falls forward against him, laying him flat on his back on her bed. She bends over him, licks a trail from his lips down his throat to his collarbone. Her hair is loose, she swings her head back and forth over his chest to tickle him with it for a moment, then she throws her head back so that she can see him, looks down on him like his conqueror. His hands are at her ass again, spreading her cheeks apart just enough so that the edges of his fingers tease her hole, and she's reaching the point where she's so turned on it's like she doesn't even care if she comes, she can't even think about coming, because her whole body feels so alive, so aching, and all she knows is that she has to have him inside her. "That feels so good." She circles a finger around his nipple. "Does this?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, and she loves his voice. All the secrets are there, what he feels, what he wants.

"Good." She bends down again, keeps her thumb flicking over his left nipple, brings her mouth to suck on his right. Her other hand runs up his side, he's sweating and she traces her tongue over to his armpit so she can taste.

"I haven't showered since this morning," he warns her.

"I don't care," she says. "You smell good. You taste good." This is what she wants, the taste of him on her tongue, she wants the whole of his body and her own. Fucking, she always thinks, is just her pussy and someone's cock, uncomplicated. But what she wants is to know his body, by taste and touch, know it as once she knew Harvey's. His body is like she imagined it, slim, strong, nothing but bone and some muscle to cover it. She loves it. Her mouth travels downward, over his ribs, her tongue dips into his belly button, she pulls the waistband of his boxers away from his body, he lifts his hips and she draws them off. She holds his balls in one hand, licks her tongue up the underside of his dick, then takes his first few inches into her mouth, hot and hard and salty. It makes her even wetter to feel his cock thicken when she sucks, and she becomes caught up in it, in listening to him groan and curse and say her name, in the feel of his hands at the back of her head. She wants to feel him come in her mouth, down her throat, but even more than that she wants to be fucked, and for a moment she wishes there was someone else in the room with them, someone behind her, fucking her as she sucks. She pulls off, crawls back up his body and looks down into his face. "I want you on top of me," she says, and almost before she's finished saying it, he's rolled her over and she's beneath him, looking up at him. She bends her knees, her thighs wide open. He settles between them. When he takes his cock in his hand, she can't help asking, "How many women have you been with?"

"I can count them on one hand."

"Including me?"

"Including you."

"I like that," she says, feeling strangely possessive, even as she has him, even as he presses inside her. He's talking to her, murmuring to her, swearing how beautiful she is and how good she feels, and she wonders if this is how he talks to his wife, if he's just saying the same things he'd say to his wife and her feral jealousy burns inside, she draws him down to kiss him and shut him up. She brings her hands to clutch his ass, urging him deeper, and he starts to fuck her harder, faster. Sometimes she thinks her favorite part of sex is not how it tastes or feels or smells, but how it sounds. She loves when he punctuates her moans with a guttural cry of his own. She's so close, she can bring herself right to the edge by flexing the muscles inside her, and once she gets her hand to her clit, all it takes is a few strokes to break her. She's still trying to catch her breath, still high from her orgasm when his hips stutter to a stop and he groans, comes. She holds him close, he surrenders, lets his body rest upon hers and her hands stroke him everywhere she can reach. After a long moment he carefully lifts himself up again, rolls over onto his side. She follows, so that they face each other again. One of his hands is at the side of her face and she turns into it, kisses his palm, then interlaces her fingers with his own. He brings his other hand between their bodies, between her legs, fingers between her lips. He asks the question with his eyes. "Yes," she answers. "Please." She looks at him and he looks back at her, and every time it's too much, every time she wants to look away, she forces herself to keep staring at him. Even when she's about to come, she keeps her eyes open, even as her pussy clenches around his stroking fingers, she's watching him watching her.

"Good?" he says, after she's caught her breath for a second time.

"So good." She can't resist teasing him. "You've fulfilled your duty, Commissioner," she says, with a salacious wink. "At ease." He gives a huff of laughter, kisses her once more, then rolls over to lie on his back, eyes closed, and she sprawls beside him on her belly, traces the contours of his face with her fingertips. He's so relaxed, now, and it makes her so happy. Harvey was the same way. Sex seemed to be the only way to give him a reprieve from his responsibilities and grant him a moment of peace. Soon his breathing slows, and she knows he's falling into sleep.

When the sun begins to rise in the morning, she stirs in his arms, feels his hold on her tighten. He sweeps her hair over her shoulder and presses a kiss to the back of her neck. She lies there, his hands resting against her belly, her hands resting on top of his. She lies there and feels his breath, long and slow and warm as it grazes over her skin.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she whispers.

"If you like."

She turns in his arms to face him and drop a kiss on his smiling lips. "Can you keep them?"

"Secrets? Like a dead man."

"What hurts me the most is that Harvey died right after I realized what he meant to me, right after I'd decided to return all the love, and more, that he gave to me. He never, we never, lived together like I wanted, as each other's one and only and I hate that, I hate that I kept him waiting."

"Was there someone else?" God, she likes how he looks at her, investigation without condemnation. There is no question that he is a man who knows his own mind and lives by his own laws, with or without the agreement of others, regardless of what others do.

"I thought there was. But I was wrong. The man I thought I loved doesn't exist."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you," she says, and the gentleness with which he wipes away her tears renews them.

She's not performing anymore or pretending in any way. She doesn't care if Bruce is watching and listening or not. It doesn't matter.

She and James are the only two people in this room, the only together who share this moment.   



End file.
